Nightmares
by Lunais
Summary: Seven nightmares Harry Mason had. Written for a LiveJournal roleplay event.


**i.**  
Silent Hill is a nightmare.

Harry wanders the abandoned streets, the fog and darkness suffocating. Snow falls without a sound, drifting gently through the air. He draws his jacket around him tighter; the cold knifes through and chills him to his core, but it's not the only reason he shivers.

Harry knows it's only a matter of time before everything changes. Again.

– the thick tang of blood clogging his senses, the layer of rust covering everything that flakes off and marks his hands that awful brown-red color when he touches anything, that constant, never-ending radio static (_**MAKE IT STOP**_) –

– And to make things worse  
the town

c h a n g e s.

It finds new ways to terrify him. It doesn't rely on just visceral horror anymore, on the fear of death and the unknown and the twisted, broken things haunting the darkness that stretches on in the distance– no, it hits far closer to home.

_Daddy?_

_Daddy,__ help __me_

_Daddy_

_where  
__are  
__you  
__**?**_

There are no words to describe the sick dread spiraling into the pit of his stomach. He runs through the town, fighting the pain and bone-aching exhaustion and everything that tells him to stop – because _Daddy's coming to get you, Cheryl, everything will be okay, just_ hold on—

**ii.**  
_I killed her._

The gun drops from nerveless fingers – he drops to his knees and just stares, unable to tear his gaze away from the horror what he's done. Cybil lies sprawled in a pool of her own blood, eyes wide and staring at nothing, the bullet holes oozing sluggishly.

_I shot her_

_It was self-defense, there was nothing I could do, I didn't want to_

_That's no excuse._

He should have done something. He should have tried harder, knocked her out, subdued her, _anything_ other than this. It's his fault she's dead.

He looks down at his hands and wonders if the blood will ever wash off.

_I'm so sorry._

**iii.**  
He's in the dark chamber again: Dahlia and Alessa and the girl in the wheelchair; the Seal of Metatron twisted into the metal grating floor, the red glow of flames dancing up, ready to devour everything. A headache begins as a dull throb in the back of his head and spreads and strengthens until he can barely concentrate. The hunting rifle hangs heavy in his grip, but he clings to it like his life depends on it, like it's the only thing anchoring him and keeping him from slipping deeper into the Otherworld.

The next few moments blaze by in a blur of noise and memory – Dahlia's triumph, Kaufmann's return, the aglaophotis' effect – and suddenly the fast forward screeches to a halt in time for the god's birth.

The woman in white doubles over in pain, her back bubbling and shifting grotesquely. She screams, loud and long, entwining with the static that suddenly screeches to life, echoing and piercing and never ending. Something finally emerges from her back in a burst of blood, twisted and mangled and perfectly matching the horror of this town. Almost as if feeding on her waning strength, the monster grows larger and larger, limbs stretching towards the walls of the room, until finally it escapes the broken body on the floor and takes off, wings working effortlessly to keep the creature aloft as it kills Dahlia.

Harry can't even find words to describe it. It's _impossible_ to describe. Some part of him is screaming its horror, but he steadfastly shuts it out and raises his rifle, aiming down the sights. He'll be damned before he lets this thing take his Cheryl away from him.

**iv.**  
It's the same room as before; the same people, the same markings, the same darkness. But something nags at him. Something's different.

It takes him a moment, but it then it suddenly hits him: Kaufmann isn't there. There's no one to drive the demon out of the woman in white. Harry watches numbly as Dahlia dies yet again, crumpling to the floor as she burns. Alessa slowly turns to regard him, gesturing idly, almost bored. He dives out of the way, barely dodging the bolt of lightning that streaks past him.

He has no choice. He has to fight her. It's terrible and awful – _is it really her…?_ – but what other option does he have?

Alessa screams and writhes as the bullet tears into her. She sinks to the floor, quietly calling out, "Daddy…"

Harry's eyes widen in horror. No. _No._"Cheryl!"

The voice is weak, barely audible, but the words shred into his heart. "Thank you, Daddy… Goodbye."

The glow slowly dissipates, and Alessa is gone. Harry sinks to his knees, grief and exhaustion finally overwhelming him. Fire and metal twist and groan as the room collapses around him, but he doesn't care. How can he care? Cheryl is gone, and _it's all his fault._

_What has he done?_

**v.**  
This is the one who took his little girl away.

Harry stares at the baby in the crib, unable to look away, unable to banish that thought. It runs through his head like a litany, endlessly.

_She could be that young woman who snatched away my beloved daughter._

Cheryl is gone. She'll never laugh or cry or smile at him or ever do anything else. He'll never be able to play with her or hug her close and tell her everything will be okay.

And it's all this girl's fault.

His next motion takes almost no thought at all.

Harry puts his hands around the baby's throat and starts to squeeze.

**vi.**  
Harry thought he would be done with guns after Silent Hill.

There was no constant danger waiting for him in the real world. Nothing was going to leap out of the mist and rip him to shreds when he wasn't looking. He didn't need to carry one around. He and Cheryl were perfectly safe.

Or so he thought.

Harry lunges for his nightstand, ignoring his bruises and aches and scratches in his single-minded focus on getting his damn gun. He nearly yanks the entire drawer out in his haste, not caring about the complete mess he was making of his room in the process. It doesn't matter, really – the rest of the house is wrecked anyway.

Cheryl screams upstairs, and a flash of terror snakes through him to settle in his gut. "Daddy! Help me!"

Harry tears up the stairs, adrenaline fueling his every step. He will _not_ let that man from the Order take his little girl, goddammit. There was no way in hell he will _ever_ let them have her.

He finds the man in Cheryl's room, reaching into the closet to pull her out. The man turns as he hears him enter the room. Harry doesn't hesitate. He squeezes the trigger once, twice, three times, as many times as it takes to make the cultist drop. The gun falls to the ground, discarded; Harry is at Cheryl's side in an instant, taking her into his arms as she cries.

**vii.**  
This time, Harry knows it's a dream.

He's in his living room, staring down at his own dead body. He puts a hand over his chest subconsciously – _(wow, was it really that bad?)_ – wincing at the sheer amount of blood that soaks his clothes and the carpet beneath his armchair.

It's a little surreal, to be honest.

The door clicks suddenly clicks open, and Harry panics a little as he sees who it is. _Heather._ Oh no oh no oh no – she's going to see, she's going to know, oh _shit_ —

"Dad, I'm home," she calls, slowly making her way over to the chair. There's something odd about the way she walks, some strange wariness. Is she alright? "Listen, something really crazy's going on…"

He wants to stop her. He'd give anything to stop her. _She doesn't need to see this._

"I think we should… Dad? _…Dad?_"

Harry can't watch. He turns away, hearing only the dull thump of Heather's knees hitting the carpet as she begins to sob. The sound rips straight through him. He reaches out to comfort her, reassure her, do something – _anything_, but he goes right through her, transient as a ghost. He tries, again and again, but nothing happens, she never notices. He can't help her, or comfort her, or do anything for her anymore, and that knowledge breaks him.


End file.
